


Herald of the Storm

by SpiritOfSherwood



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7859677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritOfSherwood/pseuds/SpiritOfSherwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Winter's icy fingers close their grasp on the Seven Kingdoms, the North girds itself to fight the War for the Dawn & the long thought dead Heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark & his Crannog guardian, Meera Reed journey from beyond the Wall, wrestling with their feelings for each other & racing against time to bring back news that could save Mankind or damn it. Post Season 6 Breera</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Bran

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is something I never thought I’d be doing any time soon. I haven’t published fanfiction of any kind in over five years but Breera ideas has been gnawing away at me ever since I became convinced of the ships existence during Bran and Meera’s scenes in Season 6 Episode 6 Blood of My Blood. That and I also need a way to keep my Game of Thrones fix until Season 7 comes out next year so the result is this.
> 
> It goes without saying that I own nothing. All rights go to D&D and GRRM, etc etc.

_“Promise me Ned. Promise me . . .”_

With the dying words of the aunt he never knew echoing through his reeling mind, Bran felt himself rushing inexorably forwards from the Tower of Joy through the fickle, twining strands of the past back into his broken body in the desolate, frigid wasteland of the mundane present. His eyes, milky white and expressionless rolled back from inside his skull to look out on the world again, returned to their normal shade of brown, unfocused and blinking rapidly as the young Stark gazed up at the canopy the Heart Tree’s red leaves gently fluttering above him in the winter breeze.

Bran began to gasp and greedily gulp down the chilly air like a half drowned man, breath steaming in the cold as he struggled to remember where, when and _who_ he was. Dimly he remembered one of the Three-Eyed Raven’s many cryptic lessons about the gift of the Greensight he possessed, what was it that the infuriating old man had said? “ _It is beautiful beneath the sea, but stay too long and you’ll drown_ ”, his onetime teacher had perfected the art of speaking in riddles and cryptic half truths to an art form. Always the old Greenseer was answering one of Bran’s many questions while posing two new ones for him to puzzle over.

But now he too was dead. Dead like the last of the Children, wiped out at last by their out of control experiment, dead like Summer who died protecting his master without a moment’s hesitation, dead like Jojen Reed who never faltered even when he knew he was walking inexorably to his own doom, dead like Hodor whose mind Bran had accidentally broken as the Three-Eyed Raven attempted to confer all of his knowledge and ancient wisdom to Bran even as his catastrophic error had drawn the Army of the Dead and their cold King to their hidden sanctuary like insects to honey. Sweet, gentle, innocent Hodor whose wits had been shattered so that he could be there to hold the door against a numberless horde of wights with his great strength long enough for Meera to make good their escape, dragging Bran’s crippled body behind her like a sack of potatoes as he remained insensible to the world even as the cold winds of the White Walker’s howled around them.

The crunching of light footfalls in the snow pulled him out of his melancholy thoughts and Bran’s heart gladdened to see his redoubtable companion, Meera Reed striding towards him. It was much darker than when he had last seen the Crannog huntress, pulling his hand out of her grasp and placing it onto the face roughly carved by unknown hands in a forgotten era into the living bark of the Heart Tree’s ancient trunk. The days were getter ever shorter and the nights colder and longer but enough weak shafts of the sun’s light trickled down through the clouds and trees for Bran to be able to just make out her pale face, framed by a riot of dark, tumbling curls.

She knelt beside him, concern writ upon her features as she took his hands in hers. For a long moment, Bran couldn’t do anything but focus on how good her nimble, callused hands felt in his as she rubbed warmth into his cold, stiff fingers. With a small grunt of exertion, she helped him to sit up with his back propped up against the Weirwood.

“Are you alright, Bran?” she asked him “you’ve been out for over an hour”

“I’m fine Meera” he reassured her, she was always concerned for his wellbeing despite his mistakes and useless legs and for that, Bran would be forever grateful to her.

“What happened, what did you see?”

“I saw . . .” the full significance of what he had witnessed in the Tower of Joy came back to him in a heady rush. The death of the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne at the hands of Howland Reed and Eddard Stark, his aunt Lyanna lying on a blood sodden bed, her infant son who Bran now knew to be his cousin, Jon Snow and the promise she made his father swear to keep his identity a secret to protect the boy from the wrath of Robert Baratheon. How do you even begin to explain something like what Bran had just seen?

“I saw my Father and Aunt on the day she died. I saw how she died”

“Lyanna Stark? My own father said he was there with Lord Stark but he would never speak of what happened that day”

“She died _giving birth to a son_ , Meera. _Rhaegar Targaryen’s_ son” Bran paused as Meera absorbed the enormity what he had told her.

“Prince Rhaegar’s son?” she said in wonder, putting the pieces together “then . . . that would make him heir to the Iron Throne! What did your Lord Father do with the boy to hide him away?”

“He kept him hidden in plain sight, passing him off as his own bastard son, my ‘brother’ Jon Snow”.

“That’s incredible Bran!” exclaimed Meera “Did you find out if Rhaegar and Lyanna were married before he was born?”

“No, she . . . died before she could tell my father”

“Oh Bran, if he isn’t a Snow then your family is directly linked to the Targaryens!”

Bran considered the enormous political ramifications this had for the North before he remembered what he had heard about the wider world at large from Maester Luwin before Theon had turned his cloak and seized Winterfell, cutting off all information from outside the North.

“House Targaryen is all but extinct; the last of them was married off to some Dothraki warlord somewhere in Essos. I doubt she’ll be coming to Westeros any time soon if she is even still alive.” So much had happened since the Sack of Winterfell that Bran was uncertain about what was happening south of the Wall beyond what he glimpsed in his waking dreams or in half-seen flashes whilst Greenseeing.

Certainly years had gone by but how long exactly was a mystery to him. In the far North learning under the tutelage of the Three-Eyed Raven in his cave, the passage of time became near meaningless to a Greenseer. Enough time for him to be on the cusp on manhood certainly. If his legs weren’t useless and broken, Bran had a feeling that he could have towered over Meera despite the Crannog girl being several years older than he. Bran considered Jon’s difficult relationship with his family, his mother in particular.

In hindsight, Bran realized that his father had publicly sullied his own honor by “fathering” the bastard and raising him in Winterfell in order to protect his nephew from the rage and hatred his old friend, Robert held for all Targaryens. More so than any other time since his father had been executed, Bran felt a pang of fierce love for Eddard Stark and sorrow for his Lord Father’s ill fated end.

_Gods, I miss you so much Father_.

“We have to tell Jon!” said Bran determinedly. “He’ll be at Castle Black and Uncle Benjen only left us half a day’s travel from the tunnel gate there.”

“That’s half a day’s travel with a sled we don’t have any more” said Meera dejectedly. Both of them were silent at the unsaid “ _or Hodor to pull it_ ”. Meera was the strongest and toughest woman Bran knew aside from Osha but he knew he was heavier than he looked and the prospect of dragging him there herself was a daunting one for Meera at best. Bran chewed his lower lip in concentration, trying to figure a way around the problem before a thought struck him.

“Perhaps if I could warg into an animal big enough to carry us both, we could make it to Castle Black by midday provided we start early.”

Meera brightened up at this “Sounds good enough. I’ll build us a fire then, my Prince”. Bran’s heart lifted when she rewarded him with one of her brilliant smiles and he couldn’t help but grin at the teasing, lighthearted way she had called him “ _my Prince_ ”. Such formalities had lost their meaning to them out here where the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms was irrelevant. Her smiles were infectious and it had been far too long since he had last seen one grace her pretty face. Ever since Jojen’s death and what had happened in the Cave, her countenance had been as grim and cold as the land that surrounded them but now they were headed south towards civilization and relative safety behind the Wall, the mood both of them shared was cautiously optimistic.

Soon enough, Meera had bought forth a small blaze that crackled and spat loudly in the night air. As the darkness deepened, the fire cast long, flickering shadows that danced in the orange light and above them the sky was all but cloudless, speckled with too many stars to count and a waxing moon rose into the night sky. Meera remarked on this as a good omen.

“White Walkers bring the cold with them. They must be far off if the weather is this clear.” Bran could attest to that. He still remembered the unnatural, bitterly cold blizzard that had swirled around them when Uncle Benjen had plucked them from the jaws of certain death at the hands of the wights after their flight from the Cave. That was the coldest he had ever been in his life. Benjen had said that the Walkers summoned up the storms to hide their movements and to sap the strength of the people they preyed on. Benjen had told them about how he had seen from afar, the Night King use this power at a place called Hardhome while shadowing the Army of the Dead to devastating effect against the Wildlings who had lived there.

As they sat together under the Heart Tree, enjoying the warmth they chewed on some strips of dried rabbit meat that Benjen had given them and some pine nuts that Meera had managed to root up from the hard ground. It was meager fare but compared to the moss they had been eating in the Cave of the Three-Eyed Raven it was a veritable feast. Bran thought it was a pity that they didn’t have a pot or skin to cook with but they weren’t starving to death and that was the important thing.

Their hunger satisfied for the moment, Meera shuffled over to Bran and sidled up next to him beneath the Weirwood tree. Bran felt his stomach flip as she wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to her.

“W-what are you doing?” he said uncertainly. This was not unwelcome, far from it but definitely unexpected.

“What does it look like I’m doing, my Prince?” she said with amused incredulity, an impish smirk on her face “I’m trying to keep us warm for the night!” Bran felt an odd jolt in the pit of his stomach at how close she was to him and her warm breath was raising a tingling sensation on the flesh of his neck that was making it hard to think properly. Hesitantly, Bran reciprocated, placing his hand around her waist and he couldn’t help but admire how good it felt to hold her even through the thick furs they were wearing.

_The Others take proper social decorum_ he thought to himself. None of that mattered north of the Wall, especially after the things they had seen and done. There was no room to be concerned with courtly niceties in such a dangerous place where death was never far away. As they sat there in each other’s comfortable companionship, Bran felt now would be as good a time as any to share a concern that had been gnawing away at him with Meera. He held up his right arm in front of them and asked her to pull down his sleeve.

Meera gasped when she saw the hand shaped bruise that still blemished the pale flesh of his forearm. The ghastly blue icy frore of the Night King’s grasp was thankfully gone and the bruising was fading and not as dark as it had been but His mark was still there. Bran fancied he could even hear it calling out to the monster who’d put it there when it was quiet enough.

“It’s healing but I don’t know if the mark He put on me is gone or if it’s sunk down to the marrow” said Bran, grimly. “I can’t risk undoing the wards and spells laced throughout the foundations of the Wall and the Bay of Seals is months away from here so I can’t travel around it before He gets here.”

“What are you saying Bran?” Meera breathed fearfully, her eyes meeting his.

“I’m saying you . . . have to leave me behind Meera. The Seven Kingdoms would be at risk if I go under the Wall. You have to go on without me. Find Jon, tell him the truth about his heritage, your father will corroborate it. He must be the one to lead us through the Long Night.”

“No _nonono_ you don’t know that!” she said, fiercely “You’d die within a day without me around to look after you.”

“Meera, my life is not worth risking the lives of every man, woman and child still alive! Enough people have died because of me already!”

“They all died getting you this far!” cried Meera “You heard what Jojen, the Children, Benjen and the Three-Eyed Raven all said! The world needs you to face the Night King when the time finally comes! _I ne-_ “ she broke her gaze and averted her eyes suddenly, it was hard to tell in the twilight but it looked like her cheeks were slightly flushed.

There was a pregnant pause, he put his fingers under her chin and gently lifted her head so that her eyes met his again.

“You what, Meera?” Bran whispered.

“I _need you_ , Brandon Stark.” Those simple words struck him like a thunderbolt. “I need you to live, for me, for the North if nothing else. You’re the Prince of Winterfell, the rightful heir to the North and I’ll not leave you to freeze and die damn it! Where you go, I go too. I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by Ice and Fire.”

With a start, Bran realized that she was paraphrasing the ancestral oath of House Reed to the Starks of Winterfell. So sincere and devoted was she in her pledge that Bran was momentarily dumbstruck with wonder. He wanted to take in all of her at that moment so that he could remember her face for the rest of his life; her fathomless green eyes, her dark curly hair, her strong nose and creamy skin. When he got to her lips, he was struck by a strong impulsive feeling to kiss her, their faces were so close together but he couldn’t do it, afraid of scaring her away. Instead he nodded slowly and said “aye, you’re right. We’ll go south together, take our chances” in a thick voice.

“. . . Good, because I’d hate to be the one to explain to King Robb why I let his eldest brother die” she said, satisfied as she pulled his sleeve back over his forearm and rested her head on his shoulder, tickling his face with her hair.

_Fool! Coward!_ He thought to himself, if ever there had been an opportune moment to kiss Meera then that had surely been it. He rested his chin on top of her head, listening to the sound of her steady breathing and mulling over the feelings of deep affection for Meera he had long held, recognizing them at last for what they were. Just as they were starting a new leg on their journey tomorrow, Bran felt that the nature of their relationship had subtly changed in a new way, you didn’t have to be a Greenseer or a Warg to sense that. Where both would lead though, not even he could say, Three-Eyed Raven or no.

“G’night Bran.” Meera murmured sleepily, her left hand grasping the hide wrapped hilt of her dragonglass dagger.

“Sleep well Meera” said Bran as he leaned back against the Heart Tree, bringing his pounding heart under control.

That night, Bran slept peacefully and without interruption for the first time since they had left the Nightfort, untroubled by the Greensight or beast dreams or worse.


	2. II Meera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back for the second chapter, we switch to Meera’s perspective! Sorry this chapter took so long, I’ve been very busy at work and sometimes I get home so late and so tired that it’s all I can do to take a shower before crashing into my bed so I’ve been going at it a few hundred words at a time. Thank you all so much for your positive feedback and reviews!

Shafts of dappled half-light on her face and the crackling sounds of a dawn frost punctuating the otherwise silent forest in her honed ears stirred Meera from her comfortable sleep, nestled in the crook of Brandon Stark’s neck. In an instant she was awake, checking for danger.

Moss-green eyes diligently surveyed their surroundings for a few moments before she was satisfied that shadowcats, ice bears or worse weren’t out there among the trees. Last night’s fire had burned out to ashes and a few wispy tendrils of smoke, the last embers guttered out in the cold although visibility was still relatively good.

 Meera sighed with no small amount of reluctance at having to get herself up from what had admittedly been a _very_ . . . comfortable position. She firmly prodded Bran’s ribs in an attempt to rouse him and all she got out of him was an inarticulate “ _mmmpfh_ ” of displeasure.

_‘Unusual of Bran_ ’, the Crannog girl thought to herself. More often than not, Bran was usually a light sleeper, up at the slightest provocation, in part due to the justified paranoia that only comes to those who grow up hunted but Meera suspected that Bran’s “gift” of Greensight, much stronger in him than it had ever been in Jojen also played a part in his nocturnal discomfort. She knew it refused to sleep with him and what it showed him in the darkness was something Bran seldom wanted to divulge. You didn’t need to have the sharp instincts of a Crannog huntress to recognize that his nights weren’t as restful as they could be. Her heart ached for him whenever she saw him wake up just _staring_ like he was somewhere else or worse, some _thing_ else.

Now though, he was as sluggish as one of the cold-blooded lizard lions who lurked in the bogs and swamps of the Neck who took hours to warm up in the day to become active. In this way, he reminded her achingly of her brother Jojen, always unwilling to arise from sleep, trying fruitlessly to snatch a few moments more of rest. Reluctantly she extricated herself from their mutual embrace and leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“Come on Bran, its dawn. Time we were off.”

“Mmmmeera” he mumbled, blinking repeatedly up at her, eyes all glassy and unfocused. She was pleased to see that there weren’t any bags under his eyes this time. _The wonders of what a good night’s rest can accomplish_ , she mused to herself.

“Wake up, lazybones! You may be the Prince of Winterfell but time stops for no one!” she said, grinning as she prodded him again, this time with her foot.

She was rewarded with yet more of his half-literate mumbling.

‘ _Nothing for it, then_ ’ she decided as she scooped up a handful of snow in her right hand and slipped it down his collar, rubbing it all over the nape of his neck and down his back, giggling uncontrollably his squirming, indignant  and suddenly very animated discomfort as she rubbed ice cold slush all over his bare skin.

“Ach, Meera NO!” grumbled Bran as he batted away her hand, now irreversibly wide awake. He glared up at her, though out of annoyance and not with any real malice, mirth and irritation fighting a fierce battle for superiority on his face and in his voice.

“Devil girl!” he muttered as he frantically tried to wipe away the offending snow. “I knew Crannogmen had a reputation for being underhanded opportunists in combat but I never expected you to stoop so low as to attack a sleeping cripple!” The tone of mock outrage in his voice brought on more hoots of laughter from Meera and before long she could even see the paleness of Bran’s teeth in the gloom as he quickly flashed her a small smile.

_‘He really should smile more’_ she thought to herself. _‘He doesn’t do it often but when he does . . .’_

Meera loved getting Bran to smile. From what she could remember of what her own father had told her about Ned Stark, Bran was definitely his father’s son when it came to his demeanor. He was usually always so somber and serious most days, despite his young age. He could be as grim and cold as any Stark of Winterfell before him worthy of the name. Always he was trying to put it upon himself to take responsibility for his actions or for the wellbeing of others such as last night’s misgivings over the Night King’s mark on his arm. Bran’s smiles were a rare thing but when they appeared, Meera felt like she had discovered something fragile and precious hidden behind his Stark stoicism. Getting him to lower his shields with her and lighten up sometimes felt like an exercise in patience but the rewards was always worth it to her.

“The results speak for themselves, my Prince. Do you think you can find us an animal to carry you with? The sooner you get us to Castle Black, the quicker we can enjoy a hot meal, a solid roof over our heads and the Wall between us and what’s out here.”

Bran furrowed his brow in contemplation whilst rolling his shoulders and neck with a series of clicks and pops.

“It may take time and I make no promises” he said, somewhat unsurely. Meera suddenly realized that this would be his first time skinchanging into another creature since Summer and Hodor died that night in the Cave when they brushed within inches of suffering a fate worse than death.  Like the sun slipping behind a bank of clouds, the brief but joyful mirth of boy and girl had given way once again to the dispassionate pursuit of day to day survival. With Meera’s help, Bran got himself onto his front in preparation for communion with the Heart Tree.

“If the Dead and their masters haven’t driven away or devoured the herds and their predators, there is a chance that the cold has already done so. I may be a while before I return with something suitable for us both.”

“Don’t you take too long , alright!” said Meera, giving Bran’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. In response, Bran closed his fingers over hers and rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand in a reassuring, circular motion. They locked eyes for a brief moment as he nodded in wordless agreement before he reached out for the face on the tree and bodily shuddered as his eyes rolled up into his head as soon as his palm made contact with the Weirwood.

As his body gradually went slack like puppet with the strings cut, Meera gently rolled him over onto his back and squatted down next to him, resigned to what could be a long wait.

As the weak sun inched its way up into the sky and the light began to turn from gloom to something approximating daylight this far North during Winter, Meera began to chew absentmindedly on one of the last few strips of dried rabbit meat that Benjen had cut and cured for them the day before he left them here in this forest within striking distance of Castle Black. Bran had tried to give her the majority of the meat, reasoning that she needed her physical strength more than him but she had insisted on splitting the supplies evenly. Bran may have been unable to walk but she knew that his abilities were more taxing than he let on, try as he might to put a brave face on it whenever he shuddered awake from subconsciously Warging or Greenseeing .

Looking over at Bran’s still form, motionless save for his shallow breathing, Meera inwardly kicked herself when she realized that she had forgotten to remind him to eat before his mind left for parts unknown. Jojen and Meera had always been reminding him of the importance of looking after his body whenever he went hunting for extended periods of time in Summer.

“Bloody Stark stoicism” she muttered under her breath. As soon as they got to Castle Black, she was going to insist on a hot meal for the both of them before anything else. Any castle worth keeping in the North would have significant stockpiles of food preserved for the lean Winter years. Images of salted meats and fish and fruits and greens stored in barrels of oil in the permanently cold storerooms carved into the very ice of the Wall itself danced through her mind. Her stomach pointedly rumbled in sympathy with her brain. Oh how she longed for fried eggs, bacon and blood sausage. She could practically taste it whenever she glanced up at the Wall looming above the tops of the trees.

Trying to ignore the cravings twisting in her guts, Meera drew her dragonglass dagger from its sheath and studied it in an effort to pass the time.

Fully two and a half hands long from hilt to tip, it was a thing of lethal beauty to her. The dragonglass seemed to drink in all the light that struck it, so dark it was but shiny and brittle as well like glass. It had been given to her by Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch when their party had crossed his path in the Nightfort. The black brother had told of how he had found a stockpile of ancient dragonglass blades and arrowheads wrapped in a long buried Night’s Watch cloak at a place called the Fist of the First Men and of how he had used it to slay a White Walker, the first to do so since the time of the Long Night. Back then it was an unsightly and uncomfortable weapon to use as the blade was roughly carved and the tang was bare, lacking any kind of handle but it was sharper than any steel Meera had ever seen in her life. It had been a crude but effective weapon.

When their party had made it to the safety of the Three-Eyed Raven’s sanctuary, one the last of the Children named Leaf deigned to show Meera their secret arts on how to improve and care for dragonglass weaponry as her kind had been the very first to work the material during the Dawn Age when the First Men had yet to arrive in Westeros. Very carefully, they had worked away at the rough edges, bit by bit until it had gone from being a merely good blade to being sharp enough to shave with without having to use soap or water if one was careful enough.

Armed with this new knowledge, Meera had taken it upon herself to carve a fuller into the blade to prevent it from getting stuck in anything she intended to stab with it be they human or demon. She had found that working dragonglass was similar to knapping flint; all it took was time, more than a few cuts on her fingers that were so thin that they hurt like paper cuts and a meticulous application of pressure in the right places.

To improve her grip, she had covered the tang in a handle made of an oversized finger bone she had found in a Giant’s skeleton that was half buried in the snow once on their travels which she then wrapped in a piece of tough hide which she had tanned while Bran was training with the Three-Eyed Raven. Meera felt proud of herself knowing that she had created a blade that even the Night King would be wise to fear if He ever got close enough to Bran for Meera to stand in between the undead abomination and her Prince although she still shuddered when she thought of the Night King and His dreadful hoarfrost scimitar purposefully and fearlessly striding through the Children’s fiery defenses around the Cave’s main entrance, a sick rictus leer upon His terrible face as He strode forth, flanked by His White Walker honour guard.   

With a jolt of horror, Meera suddenly realized that her home, Greywater Watch would lose its main defensive advantage if the Army of the Dead ever made it as far South as the Neck. Unique among strongholds, castles and holdfasts of the Noble Houses, the strength of Greywater Watch lay not in redoubtable curtain walls, sturdy battlements or high stone towers but in its ability to move unseen in the bogs and hidden waterways of the Neck, navigable only by the native Crannogmen. No outsider had ever found Greywater Watch without the consent of the Crannogmen but if the White Walkers ever came to her homeland, they could simply freeze the waters of the Neck at will, trapping Greywater Watch and the other Crannog dwellings in an inescapable sheet of ice. She could already imagine the sight of wights crawling up the sides of the floating home of House Reed like swarming ants.

_‘None of us stand a damned chance if they get South of the Wall before we can bring back warnings and mobilize our soldiers’_ thought Meera despondently. Unlike humans, anything converted into a wight could fight ferociously without feeling pain, fatigue, remorse or fear. Too many times, they had seen Wildling villages eerily abandoned down to the last hut. She had seen wights of all shapes and sizes in the Army of the Dead; men, women, children and beasts. Those kinds of numbers would be impossible for every army in the Seven Kingdoms combined to stop if they ever got South of the Wall barring a miracle and she knew that the Seven Kingdoms were bitterly divided and likely worn down from years of civil war as the High Lords squabbled over who got to sit on the Iron Throne while death came for all regardless of the sigil they bowed to.

With these grim ruminations running through her head, Meera could only breathe out one thing to herself to summarize the terrible state of it all.

“Fuck . . .”

She looked down at Bran’s still form and wondered how he was going to stand up to the Night King when the real war began in earnest as Benjen said he would. He was honorable and courageous to be sure and he was stronger in the Greensight than she had ever thought was possible for a person before meeting him but he was just one youth without the use of his legs against Winter itself. Greenseers and Wargs and the ancient magic of the Children and the White Walkers were things far removed from the factors she was used to in a fight. Steel, spears and arrows were what she understood in the mud and blood of hunting and combat but against the ancient powers that were stirring in the land once again, Meera felt dwarfed by the sheer scale of the challenge that lay ahead. She was sure that Jojen would be wise enough to comprehend their place in the grand scheme of things if he still lived. If she could talk to him now, Meera was sure that he would tell her to stand by Bran, no matter what and that was what she intended to do.

 The frosty morning silence was suddenly broken by the sound of creaking timber, heavy rumbling footfalls that seemed to vibrate the forest floor itself and an ear splitting trumpeting call that sounded like no beast Meera had ever encountered before. Something was rapidly coming their way, something _huge_. She sprang to her feet and only had enough time to mutter a brief “What the bloody hell-” before what could only be described as a brown, shaggy boulder on legs crashed into the clearing in an explosion of snow, splinters and pine needles.

Huge wasn’t an apt word for it. It was absolutely _enormous_ , as big as a thatched Crannog hut with two fearsome tusks that were longer than she was tall, ears as large as shields and a great, snakelike nose that almost touched the ground. The beast was covered in a thick winter coat of wool like fur through which, its dark eyes brimmed with patience and wisdom. With a start, Meera saw that it was wearing crude but functional straps fashioned by inhumanly large hands into a saddle not made for human riders. Meera remembered hearing stories of the Giants who lived North of the Wall as a young girl sitting on her father’s knee and she had heard tell of the mammoths they were said to have domesticated as Men would break horses but the old tales fell utterly short of meeting an actual mammoth in the flesh. This one must have lost its way from its Giant master.

Rooted to the spot by fear and wonder, Meera watched as the mammoth raised its trunk towards her with surprising dexterity for something so large. She up at it and realized that it was looking _right at her_.

“Bran?” she said hesitantly as she lifted up her hand to reach out and touch the mammoth’s trunk. The beast gave a great huff and dipped its head in affirmation as her palm made contact.

She couldn’t help but laugh in the face of this amazing, absurd situation. This was definitely something to tell her grandchildren about one day.

“By the Old Gods Bran, I was expecting an elk or deer not . . . this!”

Quick as a striking serpent, the mammoth snaked its trunk around Meera’s waist and lifted her high up off the ground. Caught off guard by what Bran was making the animal do, she let out a surprised yelp before Bran put her down in the saddle as gently as he could before the mammoth picked up Bran’s body and placed it in front of her where she positioned him to be as stable as possible, one arm around Bran’s front and holding him close to her, the other wrapped around a loose piece of rope that had once been a part of the reigns.

“We’re secure back here, Bran” she said, prodding the flanks of the mammoth with her heels as if riding a horse.

With a great bellow and trumpeting cry, the mammoth lumbered forwards out of the clearing and towards the Wall. Meera let out a whoop of joy in reply, they were on the move once again and Castle Black beckoned. Already she could see that the trees were beginning to thin out as they drew ever closer to the Wall. In ages past, the Rangers and Stewards of the Night’s Watch would sally forth with axes in hand and fell all the trees within a half league of the Wall’s northern face all the way from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to Westwatch-by-the-Bridge back when the Night’s Watch numbered in the thousands. Now it seemed they had difficulty keeping the trees that far away at Castle Black alone.

 As they cleared the treeline, it didn’t take Meera long to spot the gate at the tunnel that led to Castle Black. Craning her neck to look up at the top of the Wall, she could make out the silhouettes of mangonels, onagers and ballistae against the blue sky and if she squinted hard enough, she could just about see the shapes of men in black cloaks rushing to their positions as they caught sight of the pair riding a mammoth right up to the gate.

Bran made the mammoth halt a mere stone’s throw away from the gate itself and for an uncomfortable amount of time, they waited for a response. Upon closer inspection, Meera realized that parts of the gate were damaged, wooden planks ripped away exposing the cold rolled steel portcullis underneath. Someone or some _thing_ had clearly been bold enough to attack the Wall already but she could see no evidence of bodies in the snow surrounding them. Either the Watch had the good sense to burn them or the Night King had taken His due from right under their noses. She fervently hoped it was the former.

“Halt! Who approaches?!” called a grizzled looking man of the Night’s Watch looking out through one of the gaps in the gate where some of the bars had actually been bent and buckled. He was hooded and all cloaked in black but a bushy, dirty blonde beard rimed with frost covered his neck and brushed his chest.

“We’re human! We seek sanctuary at Castle Black! I’m Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch!”

“Well your eyes aren’t blue, that’s all that counts now! Who is the boy? Why can’t he speak for himself?”

 “He’s Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell, Jon Snow’s brother. It’s . . . complicated but he’s controlling our mammoth.”

The man sucked air through his teeth in thought at this before nodding in understanding.

“A Warg? We’ve seen their kind among the Wildlings before but never among people from south of the Wall. Its not the strangest thing we’ve seen these days, milady.”

“On that we can agree. It’s urgent that we speak to Jon Snow. We know brother Samwell Tarly as well, he’ll vouch for us!”

The Ranger withdrew from the grille briefly as if to confer with his brothers before he came back.

 “Come on in! Every soul we allow past the Wall is one less body that’ll be coming for us later and the Lord Commander will want to hear what you have to say!”

With a grinding scrape of wood on ice and the rattle of well oiled chains, the gate slowly inched up to reveal the torch lit gloom of a tunnel high enough to let them ride through on the mammoth without having to duck.

As Meera shouted her thanks as the mammoth passed by the Rangers on watch, the light of the day was shut off when the heavy gate slammed back down. Meera’s heart leapt in her chest to see light at the opposite end of the tunnel where she knew that at long last, respite lay for the both of them. At last, they were back in the Seven Kingdoms for better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meera, you are the real MVP and something of an unsung hero in the great Song of Ice and Fire. I hope you guys all enjoyed that but as ever, your feedback and suggestions are always appreciated! I’ll try to get the next chapter out within a week as that is when things start to get interesting as Bran and Meera catch up on what has been happening in the Seven Kingdoms!
> 
> Until then, Valar Dohaeris. All men must serve.

**Author's Note:**

> So, how was that? Would you like to read more? Did I do good? Reviews and constructive criticism will be most welcome and if you have any suggestions as to how to advance Bran and Meera’s relationship, I’d be more than happy to hear them! You guys all take care out there now!
> 
> The Spirit


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